


I Am Nobody

by ItsTeatimeSomewhere



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Rape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-27
Updated: 2013-03-27
Packaged: 2017-12-06 15:29:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/737240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ItsTeatimeSomewhere/pseuds/ItsTeatimeSomewhere
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some things should stay in the past. But not everything can be kept hidden.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Am Nobody

**Author's Note:**

> fuck, I don't even know what happened but here's some angst. I'll post the next chapter of SPP when I can. Sorry for the shittiness!

They hadn’t heard from Grantaire in a few days, and no one was worried. In fact, Grantaire had been known to disappear for weeks and suddenly show up with tales of his time in Venice or Hamburg. He’d bring back expensive liquors and cheap wines which they would drink as he recounted his tales. Of course, most of them involved various bar patrons or hook-ups, but Grantaire was able to weave them into stories even Joly enjoyed.

The only person who was angered by these holidays was Enjolras. He thought Grantaire was throwing his life away, and their fights after Grantaire returned were always catastrophic. Several glasses and plates had been sacrificed in the battle between Dionysus and Apollo, and the two wouldn’t talk for days after them.

Of course, that never stopped Grantaire from leaving three weeks later.

Yet even around these trips, the climate in the group of friends was changing. Enjolras became more lenient towards Grantaire, and the two were becoming something akin to friends. They still argued; Grantaire revered Enjolras and Enjolras took no notice, yet they became civil.

And that was more than anyone could ask for.

But one trip was different. It was late May, and most were preparing for finals. Joly and Bossuet were pouring over massive tomes and Jehan kept trying to pull Courfeyrac away from his essays so he could sketch his boyfriend. Enjolras hadn’t left his room in six days, only eating when Combeferre literally pushed food under his nose. The atmosphere was tense and conversations were clipped and brief. Of course, no one had seen Grantaire, but no one could be bothered to look.

So when Jehan arrived at the dorm he and Grantaire shared, he was shocked to see the lump on the couch, blanket covering everything except the tuft of black hair peeking out. “Grantaire!” He shouted, moving forward to shake the man. “Where have you been?”

Groaning, Grantaire reappeared, eyes red and blurry. “Paris,” he murmured. “Have finals happened yet?”

Jehan frowned and pushed Grantaire’s legs out of the way, sitting next to him. “No, you have art history and landscapes tomorrow.”

“Damn, I thought I’d missed them. Must’ve over calculated.” He stood and stretched.

“Why were you on the couch?”

“My bedroom is yards away, Jehan. The couch was the better option. Do we have any food in this place?”

Nodding, Jehan followed Grantaire into the kitchen and got out some pancake mix. “What drinks did you get from Paris? Oh! And did you go to that bookstore I told you to visit if you ever went there!”

Grantaire chuckled. “You seem a bit hyper for finals week.”

“Only Classics and history have actual tests. Everything else is just writing.” He turned to Grantaire expectedly. “So? Regal me with your tales!”

“Not much happened. Got drunk, met some people, acted like a hipster in those hole-in-the-wall bars. Cliché.”

Jehan drew his eyebrows together. Cliché? Nothing Grantaire did was ever Cliché. He would never do something as mundane as sit in a bar all day. He would meet people and buy things and argue and watch and _experience._

“So, drinks?” He said, changing the subject.

“Why Jehan, I must have corrupted our sweet flower. It’s not even noon!”

“Since when do you advocate that? I’ve seen you our Bailey’s over frosted flakes.”

“That was a one-time thing.”

Jehan paused. “Do you…not have any?”

Grantaire sighed. “I think…I might try to quit,” he said quietly, but firmly. “I’m tired of drinking, the fun’s been taken out by the repetition. Maybe I’ll try to paint again.”

Jehan’s jaw dropped. “W-what? Quit drinking? Grantaire!” He rushed forward, forgetting about the burning pancakes as he drew Grantaire into a massive hug. “This is incredible!” The other man returned the hug, but moved out quickly.

“Yeah, now can we work on food? I haven’t eaten since this shitty place on St Germain. I mean, you should’ve been there…” Grantaire began on one of his long-winded stories, and Jehan remade the pancakes, laughing and gasping in all the right places. But in his head, the man was wondering why now. What had caused Grantaire to want to quit? He wouldn’t been quit for the love of his life; what stopped him this time?

Eventually, Grantaire mentioned finding Eponine, and Jehan let him go, pulling out his phone the moment he left.

“Jehan, I’m in the middle of an essay. This better be important.”

“Courf, Grantaire’s back.”

“And? Where was he?”

“Paris. But that’s not important.” Jehan paused. “He wants to quit.”

Courfeyrac didn’t speak for so long that Jehan had thought the connection had been lost. “…really?

Jehan nodded, then answered when he realized Courfeyrac couldn’t see him.

“What the fuck? I’m on my way over. I’m bringing everyone so make some fucking food.”

Once his boyfriend had hung up, Jehan sighed and began to make the rest of the box of pancakes.

Settled with their food, Courfeyrac, Combeferre, Joly and Enjolras sat around the couch waiting for Jehan to begin. Apparently, Bossuet and Feuilly had finals they couldn’t miss, and Bahorel was sleeping off a massive hangover.

“So, Grantaire wants to quit.”

Gasps came up from Joly and Combeferre and Courfeyrac cheered.

“Why now?” Enjolras asked.

Jehan shrugged. “The point is that he’s finally kicking the bottle, so we’ve all got to be really supportive.”

Everyone nodded in agreement.

“So I think we should all quit too.”

Courfeyrac let out a wail. “What did I do to you, Jehan? Why must you hurt me in this way! Do you feel unloved?” He rushed forward, grabbing Jehan’s hand. “I promise I will be a better boyfriend. I’ll clean the house, come home early, and take the kids to school-“

“-WE don’t have kids.”

Courfeyrac winked in the middle of his tirade. He continued until Enjolras stood, putting a hand on his shoulder. “I agree with Jehan. It might help Grantaire if we don’t tempt him.”

“Easy for you to say,” Courfeyrac scoffed. “You never drink.”

“Regardless. I believe this is the best way, and if Grantaire has already taken initiative, then it will be much easier.”

“What will be easier?” Grantaire asked, coming through the door. He frowned at everyone in the room who was smiling gently at him. “What did I miss?”

 “We’ll quit too!” Courfeyrac replied, albeit a bite of anger evident in his voice.

Grantaire smiled. “You don’t have to do that-“

“That god,” Courfeyrac muttered.

“But we will,” Enjolras interrupted. “WE want you to get better.” He gave Grantaire a look, fire in his eyes. “All of us.”

Grantaire nodded. “Well, thanks, I guess.” With that, he walked out of the room, towards his own room, leaving the group in stunned silence.

“Did he just leave us?” Joly asked.

No one answered.

“Let him have a few minutes, guys,” Jehan said. Enjolras nodded.

“It’s not every day our resident alcoholic decides to quit on his own accord.”

“Yeah what caused that?” Combeferre asked. “Not that it’s not awesome, but is there a reason?”

“Could it be something from his trip? Where did he go, anyways?” Joly took another bite of pancakes.

“Paris. And we can ask him some other time. Right now, WE should be quizzing each other for finals,” Enjolras replied to groans of his friends.

* * *

 

_One Week Ago:_

_Grantaire was sitting in the bar, a glass of whisky in his hands as he observed the crowd. Time to find someone to go home with. The awesome part about his life was that he never actually paid for hotels. He either slept his way into a house or under a bridge. Paris was very kind to its homeless._

_Just then, he caught the eye of an attractive woman with curling blonde hair and big, red lips. As he was about to make a move, there was a tap on his shoulder. Turning, he found himself face to face with a man who could have jumped out of an Armani Exchange ad. Immaculately dressed with a chiseled jaw and honey-brown hair._

_“She’s a lost cause, mate,” he said, motioning to the woman with a drink of his own. “Already tried.”_

_Grantaire looked back over to see another man standing next to her, and watched as she slapped his face and stormed out._

_“You English too?” the model continued._

_Ignoring his gut, Grantaire winked. “Would it have made a difference if I were French?”_

_“Well I’ve always liked to understand what people are screaming when they’re with me.”_

_“Someone’s a bit cocky.” Grantaire laughed as the man looked down at his crotch. Like no one had made that joke before. Yet Grantaire let it slide because damn, this guy was hot._

_“Can I buy you another?”_

_Grantaire nodded and waited as the man swayed back to the bartender to get another whisky. If the man was as rich as his clothes suggested, maybe the bed would be comfortable this time. Last night’s woman had lived in a hovel in Les Halles and Grantaire would have been more comfortable on a bed of rocks._

_The man returned with a drink in his hand, and Grantaire nodded in thanks. The dull small talk that followed was only made bearable by the man’s beautiful lips. Yet too soon, Grantaire felt himself getting drowsy. What was this? Was he sick? Two whiskeys wasn’t enough to make even Enjolras drunk._

_Something was wrong. Grantaire’s vision began to spin, and the man caught him before he fell._

_“Hey babe, looks like you’ve had a bit too much to drink. Why don’t you come back with me to sober up, huh? I promise, I’ll take care of you.”_

_Grantaire awoke the next morning slumped against the wall of an alleyway, shirt torn and zipper broken. His entire body ached, and that wasn’t the worst._

_He wasn’t an idiot; he knew what had happened to him, even if he didn’t remember. Fuck._

* * *

 

Grantaire didn’t leave his room all night. Once it hit midnight, Jehan began to worry.

“Grantaire? You okay?” he asked, knocking softly on the door. No response. He tried again, and then a third time. When neither elicited a response, he jiggled the handle. It opened easily.

Sitting in the corner was Grantaire, paintbrush in hand he had painted vibrant reds and yellows onto a canvas, slashes of black interrupting each color like a knife wound. Grantaire was hunched over, and Jehan could make out the shape of Band-Aids on his forearms. His ears were obscured by headphones, and Jehan could hear the tinny music as it was blasted through.

“Grantaire!” He shrieked again, tapping the artist on the shoulder. When Grantaire finally removed his headphones,

“Mmm?” He added another slash of black.

“What are you doing? Where have you been? What is this painting? Is it supposed to be evil or something? Are you okay? What are those Band-Aids for? _Are you okay?_ ”

Grantaire grabbed Jehan’s flailing arms and massaged his palms with his thumbs.

“Calm down, Jehan. I’m fine. These Band-Aids are from this chick’s fingernails in Paris,” no, they’re not. “And this painting is for my final.” No, it’s not. “I’ve just been relaxing.”

“I-are you sure?” Jehan relaxed into Grantaire’s grip as he nodded. “Okay, well get some sleep. I know you don’t care, but your bullshit might be better with a bit of sleep.”

Grantaire chuckled and shooed Jehan out of the room. Sighing, Jehan went to bed himself, his worst fears still very present in his mind.

* * *

 

_One Day after “The Event”_

_Grantaire was still sore and his head was pounding. He desperately needed a drink, but was terrified to get one, even at 11am. Thinking about it again, Grantaire felt his hands start to shake. HE couldn’t focus, he couldn’t see. The man was everywhere. He needed to run. Needed to leave. He was just about to throw himself into the Seine when he heard a voice behind him._

_“Grantaire? What are you doing here?” Grantaire turned to see Bahorel walking towards him, a smile on his face. The smile, however, quickly disappeared as he saw how terrible Grantaire looked. “Dude, are you okay?”_

_Grantaire nodded. “F-fine. What are you doing here?”_

_Bahorel gave him a cautious look but answered: “working for a mate of mine. He owns a pub and needed a bartender for a few days. You on another one of your trips?”_

_Grantaire couldn’t do anything but nod. What if Bahorel found out? Would he be disgusted? Grantaire would be. He wouldn’t want to be around himself. Bahorel would act sympathetic, but then eventually he would leave, not wanting to be seen with someone so worthless._

_“Hey, Grantaire, you sure you’re okay? You look kinda pale…” Bahorel trailed off as Grantaire tried to assure him he was fine. “Well okay, but how about we go get a drink? I can get us a great discount.”_

_Grantaire felt like he was going to throw up. No. No drinks. Drinks would hurt him, drinks caused him to become such a failure in life. No more._

_“Whoa, hold on there ‘Taire. You don’t look so good. Did I do something? Say something? What’s going on?”_

_Had to get away. Sympathy wouldn’t last. Leave. Don’t come back._

_He tried to bolt, but Bahorel grabbed him, and he couldn’t fight against the strong man. With effort, Bahorel managed to bring Grantaire back to his flat above the bar, making sure all the empty bottles were put away._

_Grantaire soon found himself curled up on a couch, a mug of tea in his hands. Bahorel sat across form him, hands twisting and turning around a napkin._

_“Um, can you explain what that was?” Bahorel asked, trying to keep his voice level._

_Grantaire couldn’t. Because if Bahorel found out, he would leave. Everyone would._

_“Hey, R! Snap out of it! What the fuck happened?”_

_Grantaire shook his head._

_“Tell me, goddman it!”_

_“You’ll leave,” he managed to whisper. Fuck, why’d he say that?_

_“I promise I won’t…?”_

_Could he trust Bahorel? He always could before. They were drinking buddies, and things said in bouts of drunkenness were always kept. Yes, Bahorel wouldn’t tell anyone. He could trust him._

_He felt the words fly out in a whispered stream, pretending it was just another story, not something that had happened last night. By the end of the story, Bahorel simply looked at him in disbelief. There was a moment of silence, and Grantaire took a sip of his tea. It tasted like shit._

_“Holy fuck, R…”  Bahorel said, rubbing a hand through his hair. “Have you gone to the police?”_

_Grantaire shook his head._

_“Well we’ve gotta do something! We can’t let that bastard get away with bullshit like this!’ He had fire in his eyes. Just like his Apollo._

_Well, Apollo would never want him now. Speaking of…_

_“You can’t tell anyone about this, Bahorel.”_

_“Fuck of course I can! You’ve gotta-“_

_“No. Don’t. I’ll be fine after a few days of recuperation. Don’t worry.”_

_“…have you gotten tested?”_

_“Don’t want to, don’t care. If I die, then so be it.”_

_Bahorel’s eyes were watery, which was odd because Bahorel never cried._

_“Fine, I’ll get tested. Just don’t fucking mention it.”_

_He took a deep breath. This was too girly of a conversation. Change the topic, R._

_“So, who did you have over last night? Pretty?” He winked and Bahorel gave a choked laugh, but answered. Finally, things would get better._

* * *

 

Fucking Classics. It was the stupidest class ever, and filled with withered old hags. He would have a better chance of getting laid at an old folk’s home than in this class, Courfeyrac mused. He finished the last sentence of his essay and handed it in, giving the teacher a wink as he did so. Now, all he wanted was a drink. But he couldn’t have one, because fucking Grantaire wanted to do the right thing and everyone had to be “strong for him”. Like R wasn’t strong enough. Speaking of, where was the man? He and Courfeyrac had Art History together, but Grantaire had yet to show. And the final started in ten minutes.

His phone was off, Jehan hadn’t heard from him in three hours, and Bahorel said he wasn’t near to pubs.

Now Courfeyrac started to worry. Because Grantaire had just turned over a new leaf, but that didn’t mean that nothing could happen to him.

So, Courfeyrac decided to blow off the final to find his friend. Seriously, who cared about art history?

The question was, Courfeyrac thought as he left the school, where would Grantaire go?

Obviously, the pub. But now? Now that he wasn’t drinking? Courfeyrac decided to simply walk, and maybe he would find him.

AS luck would have it, Grantaire was leaning against the edge of a bridge across the Thames. He didn’t notice Courfeyrac show up.

“We had a final, R.”

No reply.

“Are you-Is everything-“

“Courf, do you ever just feel like throwing yourself off this bridge?”

Courfeyrac stopped in his tracks. “W-what?” He laughed nervously. “Why would you want to do that?”

Grantaire muttered something under his breath.

“Grantaire? You’re scaring me. What’s going on?”

Suddenly, Grantaire stood up straight and gave Courfeyrac a smile. “What? I’m fine. Do you think we can still make that final?” He turned to walk away, but Courfeyrac grabbed his arm. But, when Grantaire flinched at the grip, Courfeyrac let go as if he was burned.

“C’mon courf,” Grantaire said, “Muriel will kill us, and I don’t fancy being turned into shoes.”

With that, Courfeyrac let himself be dragged away, hoping that, with time, things would get better.

* * *

 

**Two Months Later**

They were going on a date. Somehow, Grantaire had managed to convince his Apollo that he was a worthy paramour.

It was set for seven o’clock at a little Italian restaurant that Enjolras had recommended, and Grantaire arrived an hour early, just in case.

It was good that Enjolras arrived a half-hour early, too.

The first few minutes were awkward, as neither knew how to act around the other without shouting. When the wine list came around, Grantaire ignored it entirely, and was rewarded with a smile from his God.

They talked of politics and pictures and everything in between. Their arguments had taken on a light-hearted edge, and the tension slowly bled away. By the end of the evening, Grantaire was having the best time of his life. All worries bled away, and his head was filled only with Enjolras.

Of course, all good things come to an end.

They walked home together, Enjolras tentatively taking Grantaire’s hand halfway through. Grantaire felt something warm inside him when he glanced over to see Enjolras blushing in the streetlight. When they reached Grantaire’s flat, they stood awkwardly before both speaking.

“Thanks that was-“

“We should really-“

The awkwardness had returned. Then, Enjolras suddenly moved forward, and pressed his lips against Grantaire’s. It was nothing big at all, as chaste as a kiss one would get from his mother, but it was a trigger.

It all came flooding back.

_“Useless fucker. At least you have a pretty face.”_

_The pain, the torment, the anger, the pounding, the aching, the choking, the uselessness. He couldn’t do anything. He was worthless. Immobilized and at the mercy of another man._

“Grantaire! Grantaire!” Enjolras was shaking his shoulders. He was on the street. How did he end up on the floor? “What happened?” Enjolras sounded frantic. Poor man.

He felt himself be shuffled inside and up the stairs. Finally, he was able to come back to himself.

“What happened, Grantaire? D-did you not want to kiss? I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be presumptuous.”

He was scared. Scared of Grantaire. Well of course he was scared. Scarred of a scarred, useless, stupid man. Not worthy, not anymore.

“You’re not worthless, ‘Taire! What are you talking about?”

Shit, he’d said that out loud.

“Nothing, Enjolras. S-sorry for that.”

“You have nothing to be sorry for. Just tell me how I can help.”

_You have everything to be sorry for. It’s your fucking fault._

“Um, sorry. I’m gonna go now, thanks, though.” He backed against the door and felt for the handle.

“Wait, what happened?”

“Tonight was great-“

“-you’re scaring me-“

“-bye.” He wrenched the door open and rushed inside, praying to god that Enjolras would not follow. He ran past the living room and up the stairs into his mess of a room. Paintings lined the walls and the paints themselves left little splashes of color across the creaky floorboards. Grantaire tried to calm his breathing down, but The Man was stuck in his head. He couldn’t turn the voices off, had to turn them off.

But how? His eyes strayed to the bottle. Enjolras would hate him even more. But this was the only way to forget. Forget, forget, forget.

He had downed two bottles of absinthe and was on his third when Enjolras came barreling in.

“What was that?” he cried, eyes taking in the bottles on the floor and the figure cuddled in the corner.

“Go ‘way,” Grantaire muttered, taking another sip. He was still too sober, still remembered too much. Time to erase.

“Can you tell me what just happened? I-“

“Can’t help. Can’t fix.”

“Why would you need to be fixed?” Enjolras moved forward, putting a tentative hand on Grantaire’s shoulder.  The drunken man flinched as if he had been shot, and Enjolras’ heart beat faster. Something was seriously wrong here.

“…Don’t worry, Grantaire. I’m here. It’s Enjolras, remember?” Apparently, those words seemed to have some impact because Grantaire was soon throwing himself into Enjolras’ arms, bottle forgotten on the floor. Carefully, Enjolras wrapped his arms around the shaking man as Grantaire sobbed into his shoulder, whispering apologies into his ear.

Finally, Grantaire calmed down enough to fall asleep, and Enjolras carried him into his room. He looked so peaceful in sleep, it seemed impossible for a man to carry such weight on his shoulders.

* * *

 

He would have to open his eyes sometime. He couldn’t fake sleep forever.

Or could he?

Grantaire groaned and finally sat up, after deliberating the pros and cons of sleep. Of course, his growling stomach dampened any plans of staying in bed.

Walking to the kitchen, he was met with a stony-faced Enjolras putting a plate of eggs in front of him.

“Morning, Apollo,” he mumbled, shoveling the eggs into his mouth. After all, he couldn’t talk with a full mouth.

Enjolras waited until he finished chewing before asking the question. “Explain.” He needn’t say more, as his face said it all. Anger, confusion, sorrow, pity, hurt; anything and everything was clear as day.

Play it dumb. “Explain what? Why you’re in my kitchen? Cause I’d really like to know.”

“God _damn_ it, Grantaire!” Hands slammed down on the countertop. “Something fucking happened last night, and I want to _help_! Is it so difficult to just explain?”

Can’t tell, don’t tell, worthless, stupid, annoying. “You don’t want to be burdened with my problems. It was just a little freak-out. It won’t happen again.” Or will it?

Enjolras moved around the table and grabbed one of Grantaire’s hands. “This is going to sound stupid but I _really_ like you, and I want to be with you, but I can’t if I don’t know what’s going on and if I spend life worrying about you.” It was so far from his usual eloquence that it made Grantaire look up. “So please, _please_ , help me understand.”

Could he do it? Could he trust that Enjolras wouldn’t go running at the first word?

After all, if one couldn’t confide in the gods themselves, then who was left to speak to?

Taking a deep breath and pulling his hands back, Grantaire began to speak. He spoke of his time in France, all he could remember from the night, and meeting Bahorel in the pub. He tried to keep it impersonal, giving Enjolras the facts and nothing more, but the tears still bubbled up.

“…and I couldn’t fucking stop him ‘cause I wasn’t fucking strong and I haven’t had a drink since that night and my head hurts like hell and I haven’t been able to sleep and-“ he was cut off by a pair of strong arms around him, and his head fell onto Enjolras’ shoulder. They sat like that for a few minutes, Grantaire trying to calm himself enough to sit back up.

When he finally did, the view he was met with surprised him. Enjolras was wearing an expression more angry than anything Grantaire had ever seen. And that was counting the time Grantaire had replaced all of his rally notes with cartoons and his coffee with lemon juice.

“I’m going to find that man and he will regret ever touching you,” Enjolras said, his voice steely and calm. The worst part was, Grantaire could see that Enjolras was completely serious and would not hesitate to kill a man for him.

The thought made his heart flutter and stutter.

“Enjolras, don’t say that. I’m not-“

“Of course,” Enjolras scoffed, standing up. “You’re not worth it. It’s _okay_ for people to take advantage of you. It’s _okay_ for douchebags to slip roofies into your drinks. It’s _okay_ for you to go through withdrawal on your own. It’s not fucking okay!” He was pacing agitatedly around the room by this point, and turned around to face Grantaire once more.

“I’m sorry-“

“Don’t say that. You have nothing to apologize for.”

“But it was-“

“-not your fault. I’m going to help you, Grantaire. I’ll see if they have anything to make the withdrawal better. I think Jehan knows a few good therapists if you want to try those, or you can just talk to me, although I don’t know how much help I’ll be. I can even-“

He carried on, and Grantaire couldn’t help but let a little bit of hope flutter out. Was Enjolras really staying? Was he not shipping Grantaire off to some rehab center?

“Grantaire? Can you hear me?”

Grantaire nodded. “I can’t believe you’re staying.”

Enjolras simply nodded. “Well of course. Now, I’m going to get Bahorel over here as soon as I can because maybe he can explain some more. Also…”

AS he watched Enjolras ramble on about all the things he could do, interspersed with smiles at Grantaire or small touches on his shoulders or wrists, Grantaire couldn’t help but feel loved, for the first time in his life. Because maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t completely broken.

 


End file.
